Tracys of All Trades
by PurpleBlaze
Summary: Occupants of an isolated island are forced to wear many occupational hats. Aka: where the author chooses two random brothers and a job.


**Tracys of all Trades**

**Occupants of an isolated island wear many occupational hats. **_**Aka: where the author chooses two random brothers and a job.**_

**Chapter One: Masseur**

* * *

Sometimes, despite the bribes of muscle relaxers, jacuzzi jets, painkillers, massage chairs, and stretches, Gordon's back attempted to murder him. He supposed that he deserved its knife twisting revenge after mangling it up years prior.

Thank God no disasters reared up in the world today, because hobbling to Tracy Island's swimming pool and barely making it muted the 'heroic' aura he liked to display.

The stones lining the pool absorbed tropical rays and tried their best to mimic a stovetop. Gordon laid down, back pressed flat against the ground. His skin hissed at the heat.

He sighed as the pain of scorching stone outweighed the pain of old wounds. He was going to lie there until all feeling burned away.

A shadow cut between his face and the sun. "Gordon?"

"I'll never get a tan with you blocking my rays," Gordon said.

Scott squatted down, still casting a shadow over his brother. "What are you doing?"

"Scott, Scott, Scott." Gordon started to shake his head pityingly, but stopped when his spine stung him in protest of the movement. "Don't you know it's my role to always be at the pool? It's a family expectation that I fully intend maintain."

"Yeah, but normally you're _in_ the water."

"I'm migrating."

"Okay, enough of that. Get up before you roast yourself."

Scott slipped a hand between Gordon's back and the ground, wincing at the heat, and helped lever his little brother up with the least amount of back movement. They shuffled over to a lounger and Gordon melted down onto it. He stuck his face between the white plastic bands of the chair.

Gordon felt his brother run a finger along his upper back. "You burned yourself pretty bad back here. Keep this up and you'll get second degree burns in no time."

Gordon shrugged in a way that did not require any real back movement.

The Elder Tracy stood to drag a deck table sporting a large beach umbrella nearer. Metal table legs screeched in protest of the move. He reached up to angle the umbrella so that its shade protected the prone ginger. "Stay here," Scott said before he walked away.

He returned bearing a tub of burn ointment. He piled a generous amount of goop on his fingers and then put his hands to Gordon's back.

Gordon winced into his chair at the contact. Scott kneaded his knuckles down Gordon's spine, the oily burn ointment making it a slick journey.

"I can't believe you're not even buying me a drink first."

"Har har," Scott responded, deadpan. "That joke has never, ever been told over and over again in the history movies and literature."

"Yeah, like that dry way of saying 'har har' has never-uuuuuugh" Gordon cut off his sentence with a long groan when the heel of Scott's palm found the culprit of what kept him up some nights: the muscle running from shoulder to mid-back. Scott rubbed on and around the scar tissue build-up there with the familiarity of long-practice. He didn't pause when Gordon exhaled grunts of pain. It was better to power through it to get to what the deep tissue cried for.

Knot after knot relaxed under his ministrations, until Gordon was practically a bag of pudding under his hands. As Gordon's eyes began to droop shut, Scott paused long enough to ruffle the redhead's hair.

"Next time you feel like being a turkey roast. Come find me."

Gordon's neck felt good enough to turn his head. "Will you feed me pellets?"

"No, I'll just throw glue on you and then stick you with feathers."

Gordon responded in a wistful tone, "I haven't done a good tar and feathering since WASP."

"That wasn't a recommendation."

"What can I say bro. I'm a fan of the classics."

Scott said sternly, "If anybody in this family gets tarred and feathered, I'll know exactly who the culprit is."

Gordon let out a snore into the lounger.

"I know you're not sleeping."

A louder snore was the reply.

"Brat."

Up Next: _Personal Trainer_


End file.
